Aren’t all beginnings new? Where does a beginning start –when I recognize my own beginning? My morning begins in the dark when tangled in dreams and thoughts I emerge. Often I burrow deeper into my pillows filtering through what I remember from the night’s journey. Sometimes I begin in prayer. Other times I simple get out of bed, put my slippers on as my cat, Merton, brushes against my feet, hungry and impatient. He has been my guardian while I slept. I take the stairs carefully. White Christmas lights twist around the banister. I leave them on as I find them a good nightlight.
I feed Merton and pop the button of the coffee maker I set up the night before. I heat my mug with hot water. As the coffee brews I look out the kitchen window into darkness. I know the woods are there and perhaps the deer. I read the quotes I have tacked around the windows. My morning mug is from New Camaldoli Hermitage in Big Sur. It has a drawing of a monk facing a butterfly on it. I fry an egg and toast a piece of rye bread. Taking all with me- the coffee, cream and raw sugar, top it with whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon, I sit on the couch by the window watching the sky change. Some people would say it is still night – 4:00am and others say it is morning. These are my monk hours- solitary and with a peace beyond words – a profound silence within.
When does the day begin – sometimes before I see it since it all rolls over – time without beginning or end? My waking is a passage through time. – universal – sacred. Grateful I begin again.